These lines are
This is our very best dystopic mess.
Hold the note while it devalues.
You concentrate on deformity
on the crass curiosities of decay
disfigurement, distortion, chaos.
The squalor in your spirit
is carelessly tended, which
accelerates your character development.
The fingertips are gender positions.
Some genes persist by lucky powers
and chance and well, here you are.
Don’t fall for your own charisma
- but you have, you have to.
The work convinces me of its necessity
like a palm to the cheek, either fast
or soft depending on how well
I’m learning. Precious, ornate terrors
await those without real ones.
Nobody is starving in our street.
Ennui sets the youth reeling.
Metaphors attack you in your sleep
and you wake thick tongued and blinded
with belligerent meanings.
All the drugs, the super cool kids
on the run from their family mansions
make themselves available to the concrete
art. The illness, receding, leaves our eyes bright.
The world is awash in wasted brilliance.
How crazy were we to think
this mode of transport would be effective?
You’ve finally been imperfected.
Anything that gets made in passion stays
in the current second, keeps getting invented
as long as we both shall live.
What I miss most is your early work.
